


what true love is made of

by callievalpoli



Category: Casablanca (1942)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:38:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callievalpoli/pseuds/callievalpoli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ilsa was given the greatest gift of all in life.  Choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what true love is made of

**Author's Note:**

  * For [randomizer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomizer/gifts).



> For randomizer.
> 
> Hope this met your Yuletide wish. Have a great holiday season!

One of Ilsa’s first memories is of her mother, face solemn, telling her she could be whatever she wanted to be—that she would be given the greatest gift of all in life, choice. She remembers her mother telling her to use that choice wisely, not for selfish reasons, but for the good of all.

She knows now, as an adult, that her family was well-to-do—that it was her mother’s way of saying that money would be no object in life—that she shouldn’t let money spoil her world-view. But, at the time, she only knew that it meant she should help others, and that she should value the same selflessness in others.

Growing up, she tried to be the best person she could be, and, while there were times she slipped up, she was by nature a well-behaved child. She took to learning like a duck to water. Any type of new lesson was simply fascinating. And, while her classmates dreaded the tolling of the school bell, she eagerly waited for the glorious sound.

Ilsa’s friends were good girls, were _kind_ girls, but they weren’t ever as interested in classwork as Ilsa herself. Instead, they were interested in dresses and ribbons, and later, boys. They would talk of Aksel’s blue eyes or Bernt’s brilliant smile, and Ilsa would smile and nod and think of how Aksel would whip his horse and how Bernt would talk back to the teacher.

When Ilsa’s friends started taking up beaux, Ilsa herself was studying under a tutor on philosophy and the sciences. Every day she felt her understanding of the world around her expanding. Every day she learned some beautiful new mystery. 

Her tutor, Herr Franzen, teaches her of the glory of Aristotle, of the brilliance of Francis Bacon. They talk of the past politics of the Greeks and the Romans. And they talk of present day politics. One name that is mentioned often by Herr Franzen, with almost reverence, is the name of Victor Laszlo. “He is hardly more than your age,” Herr Franzen will say, “and he is already a true leader.”

When Victor Laszlo shows up in Oslo for a conference at the university, Herr Franzen throws a party in Victor’s honor. When Ilsa meets him, she thinks she finally understands this obsession her friends had with boys. Victor speaks, and the words from his mouth are the most passionate she has ever heard. And they rouse equal passion in her. Victor speaks of the atrocities going on under Germany’s reign, the atrocities that will surely multiply as Germany gains power. And Ilsa is _moved_ as she has never been moved by a man before. 

They talk into the night, and when the morning is fast approaching, Victor says, “I have never met someone I have shared a deeper connection with,” and presses a kiss into her palm. And when he calls for her at her home the next evening, she goes with him.

And again the next night. 

And the next.

And, when he says, “I do not wish to spend another day without you. Please, do me the honor of becoming my wife—”

Then Ilsa thinks, this is a good man. This is a man who loves all that she loves. And she says, “Yes.”

They marry in secret because they must. “If I could,” Victor says, “I would be shouting from the rooftop my love for you.” But he is a public figure. He is in a very dangerous position. And if anyone knew of their relationship, the things that could be done to her do not bear mentioning.

And so they drive to a small town miles away from Oslo, and they trade vows in a little white chapel, just the two of them and the minister and his sister there to see the joining of two people so suited.

They spend the night at a room in the minister’s house. And Victor makes love to her in a way that makes her blush to think of the next day, presses kisses to every inch of her body, and holds her close as a second skin.

The next morning they drive back to Oslo, and Ilsa’s mother says, “Really, darling, I’m sure this new friend of yours is terribly intelligent and exciting, but do try to be home at a reasonable hour. People will talk.”

And Ilsa bites her tongue and doesn’t say, “He is my _husband_ not just my friend.” Instead she says, “Yes, mother.” 

That night, Victor takes her to a small café and says, “I have to go.”

“You mean _we_ have to go.” Ilsa, tightens her grip on his hand.

“No. No, Ilsa. It isn’t safe for you.”

“Victor—“

“No. I am going tomorrow. And I am going without you.”

When they leave the café, Victor kisses her on the hand. Ilsa doesn’t let him see her cry. She holds it in until she is alone with her pillow.

This happens again.

And again.

And again.

Each time Victor leaves for a mission, one that’s too dangerous for him to speak of. And each time Ilsa doesn’t. Ilsa just waits for him.

It happens over and over again, the wait, followed by the happy reunion, until it doesn’t. Finally there comes the day Victor doesn’t return. He is late. He is later. She has no news, no way to know what happened to him. She is distraught, constantly in fear for Victor’s life, of never hearing his name again.

When Herr Franzen calls, she is still distracted by thoughts of her Victor, so what Herr Franzen says doesn’t penetrate at first. When it does, she is certain she misheard, “What did you say?” she says, grabbing his sleeve.

“A real pity about Laszlo,” Herr Franzen says, adjusting his glasses. “He was such a force in the movement. And now, with him in an internment camp, I’m not sure what will happen to the Czech people.” 

Ilsa mumbles out an apology and leaves the room. She makes it to her basin in time to empty her stomach. She takes a minute to let loose her emotions. “Victor is lost,” she says into her palm. 

And then she very carefully pulls herself back together. She tucks her hair in place, rinses her mouth. She pinches her cheeks until they’re not the pure white of a ghost. And then she grabs her copy of Aristotle’s ‘Physics’ and returns to Herr Franzen. 

When he comes back less than three months later with the news of Victor’s death, she says, “That is a true loss,” and talks about his contributions and how the world will always remember him. Instead of the tears and the anguish she expressed at his capture, she simply feels numb. She knew this day would come from the moment he was captured.

She continues being a dutiful daughter, she continues seeing her friends, and, perhaps because no one knew of her true connection with Victor, it’s easier to pretend she is fine than it really should be. When her friends tell a joke she laughs. When they tell a story, she can still feel interested. 

The open wound of Victor’s death is there, it bleeds out slowly every day. A part of her is dead right along with Victor. But it’s not really the part her friends and family know and love. It’s the idealist in her that died the day that Victor was captured. And she is not sorry for it. She’s glad of it. She knows she will never have to hurt this way again.  
She goes on a vacation. Her mother says she has lost the color in her cheeks. She needs some time away. And so, she goes on a trip to Paris. And on her first day there she gets horribly stuck on the cobblestones. She hears a voice say, “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” And when she looks up, she falls a little in love.

Rick is everything that Victor wasn’t. He is blunt and sarcastic and he spends hours of the day making her laugh. He talks about America with the kind of disillusionment only an American can. 

He tells her she’s brilliant and beautiful. And he makes her feel that she really is. It’s not anything like her relationship with Victor, which was based only on the big things. With Rick it’s all the little things that make up their relationship, from something as simple as a shared joke to something as complex as their ability to make dinner together. 

She falls in love with Rick in a way she never did with Victor. Not that her love for Victor wasn’t real in its own way, but she always loved Victor for his ideals. With Rick, it’s an all-encompassing thing. She loves everything about him, from the funny way he rolls his shoulders to the way his mouth quirks up at the corner when he sees her.

As much as she loves Rick, as much as she trusts him, she still cannot bring herself to tell him about Victor. She still cannot mention his life, and certainly not his death. On her more indulgent days, she tells herself it’s because she doesn’t want to bring darkness into their relationship. Most days she knows it’s because she cannot stand the thought of him leaving her if he knew she was already someone else’s wife. 

And so, when Rick brings up Germany, when he brings up the horrible state of the world, she smiles and says she doesn’t like to think of negative things and pours them another drink.

They live in this paradise for a fortnight. And when the tension grows too much from the invading German Army, they make plans to leave, buy train tickets to take them to the docks. Rick will take her with him back to America, show her the dirty streets and the dirtier people.

And then she gets the letter. Victor isn’t dead after all. He will be released. He would love to have her at his side.

For a second, she thinks about burning the letter. Victor is dead. He _has_ been dead for the past half-year. She doesn’t owe him anything. She’s in _love_ with Rick.

And then she thinks of all that Victor has done, of all that Victor will doubtless yet do. And, instead of burning the letter, she burns her train ticket. She writes the letter to Rick with tears streaming down her face, seals it with a kiss.

Ilsa mourns the loss of her love for the entire train ride to Victor. And then she steels herself, and steps from the train to meet her Victor, to meet her _husband_.

When she sees Victor again, he is a shell of who he was. His arms are like sticks, his skin is sallow, his cheeks and eye-sockets are shrunken in until he looks like a skeleton. She says, “This will never happen again,” without even thinking.

Victor says, “Ilsa,” voice pleading.

Ilsa says, “No. I say this and I mean it, Victor. If you want me to remain your wife, if you truly want me by your side in sickness and health, you will _allow_ me to remain with you. No matter what.” She feels tears heavy on her cheeks as she sees how he shakes. She turns her face away. “If you cannot agree to that, I will leave now and never see you again.”

“Ilsa,” he says. “Ilsa, you’re right. Of course you’re right. You’re always right.” He brushes his gaunt hands over her wet cheeks and brings their lips together in a chaste kiss.

From then they both live together and work together for the first time. Victor often grabs her hand or her shoulder and says, “I would never be able to do this without you Ilsa,” or kisses her forehead, saying, “I love you more every day.” 

She always smiles a small smile in response and simply says, “Victor,” in an exasperated way. Exasperation hides a great deal, she soon finds. It hides a disinterest in love-making, and an inability to love Victor in the same way as she used to.

Occasionally she feels such _disappointment_. Not really in Victor, or with herself. She simply feels disappointed that she had a taste of true love at all. If she had never met Rick, she would never know what her life was missing.

But eventually her memories of Rick begin fading. And, while she still remembers him with a true fondness, eventually she does remember why she loved Victor in the first place. They still aren’t lovers as they were before, but now, when he kisses her cheek, she kisses his back. When he holds her hand, she gives his a special little squeeze.

Some might not be able to understand their lack of love life, but their life is full of work on the resistance. Nights are often spent in less than ideal conditions, sometimes in small homes, sometimes in small tents.

Victor does not seem to miss their lovemaking. 

It’s a small mercy.

The political climate in Europe grows steadily worse until the day they are finally advised to leave. Victor doesn’t want to, of course, but when Ilsa says, “We either leave together or we stay together,” he packs his bags without a second’s hesitation.

Morocco is beautiful, Ilsa supposes. Or, at least, it would be if it weren’t for the armed militants on every corner. As it is, they travel as covertly as possible. 

When they hear the cantina they are looking for is named Rick’s, Ilsa doesn’t think much of it. There are surely millions of people named Rick.

When she turns around and sees him—

It feels almost as though her world slows to a standstill for a brief minute or two.

She blushes and stammers her way through the rest of the meal. 

When she sees Rick—when she really _sees_ him—she knows he isn’t doing well. His eyes are bloodshot. He reeks of alcohol. His shirt collar is crumpled. He is a shadow of the man she knew.

The more she sees him, the more she talks to him, the more she wonders how she fell in love with him in the first place.

He is nothing but a sickness on the face of the planet. Victor is a shining beacon of what all men should aim for. 

She watches him obsessively, picking at every flaw. He is nothing. He is less than nothing. He’s a booze-hound with delusions of grandeur in his little bar. 

But as she watches, she starts to notice something strange. Poor people, down-on-their-luck people, talk to him, and suddenly they start smiling. And then she never sees them again.

She sees this happen once, twice.

And then she knows.

Rick, the sad, beaten-down mutt of a man, still is helping the people who cannot help themselves. He is, somehow or other, getting letters of transit to them.

She’s not sure how she ought to feel at this realization, but for some reason, she hates Rick more than she has ever hated another human being in that moment.

Hardly knowing what she’s doing, she steals Victor’s gun and confronts Rick. She uses every bit of venom she has against him, lies and hatred and a strange almost-fear. And when it is all gone, all that’s left is her love for him, hidden but slowly growing over the last days. She shouldn’t feel love for him. He’s nothing to Victor. But she loves him as no woman has ever loved another man.

It’s a new sort of heartbreak when she realizes he doesn’t love her in the same way—when she realizes that, in reality, he doesn’t love her at all. It makes it easier to step on the plane than any step she’s ever taken. 

As the plane takes off, she watches Rick growing smaller and smaller from her window. She knows her love for him will never diminish. But she also knows that she will have happiness with Victor. The two of them will chisel a happiness out of the hostile world they’re surrounded by. That has to be a special kind of love, the kind you have to fight for. Perhaps that is the truest love of all.


End file.
